


Silver

by Nerd_Queen



Series: Merry Kim-Mas [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character name spelled viktor, Chris is done with viktors bs, Friendship, Gen, Pre Canon, Regrets, for most of it, slight reference to alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:27:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8943682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerd_Queen/pseuds/Nerd_Queen
Summary: This is basically a dumb headcanon I had bout Viktor's hair that went out of control





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set from when Viktor is 19 to before the end of episode 9

“Oh, and that triple toe loop planned turned into a double, what a shame for Russia’s ice king, Viktor Nikiforov! He has a quadruple Lutz planned next. Can he make it?”

_I could seriously do without your damn commentary right now._ Viktor thought, quickly pulling one of the long silver strands of his hair from his eyes hastily, increasing the speed of his skating to build momentum for the jump.

  
He took off in front of the sign, rotating his body so he spun through the air, although he didn’t land as cleanly as he’d hoped, foot bending awkwardly, causing him to fall forwards, crashing into the ice shoulder first, the hand he put down barely dulling the blow.

  
Viktor hissed at the pain, pulling himself up off of the ice and back onto his feet, gliding across the ice once more.

  
“Oh! That was quite a fall from Russia’s Viktor Nikiforov, but he’s back on his feet, just in time for the step sequence! Will he manage it?”

  
“ _Of course I will_.” Viktor growled under his breath, having half a mind to flip off the announcer but deciding against it as he began his step sequence. At least he didn’t fail that.

  
The music ended, Viktor striking a pose, hand on hip and the other outstretched as he legs were crossed.

  
Bouquets and stuffed animals were thrown, Viktor stooping to pick up a small doll of his poodle Makkachin, with a tissue sticking out of it? It felt hard around the centre... was it a tissue box? Convenient.

  
He pushed the thought away, smiling at the crowd as the audience roared, although not as much as he we was used to, and skated off the rink to Yakov, who was already waiting for him in the kiss and cry.

  
He dropped down next to Yakov with a groan, tugging at the elastic (barely) holding his long hair away from his eyes, releasing the sweaty silver locks with a sigh.

  
“I know. I failed.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair to relieve some of tightness in his scalp.

  
“You were the last one up, Vitya, you were bound to feel the pressure at some point.” Yakov responds gruffly.

  
“It’s not just that, Yakov. The audience isn’t surprised anymore. They’re bored. I’m what’s boring them.” He huffed, resting his chin on his fist.

  
“Don’t beat yourself up, Vitya. You have the free skate and the gala to redeem yourself. You haven’t lost yet.”

  
“And the judges now have their score! Russia’s Viktor Nikiforov has been awarded a total count of eighty seven points for his short program, landing him in the unfortunate place of sixth place. Must be all that hair getting in the way! Can he turn this around?”

  
Viktor stood from the bench abruptly, storming past the press, the poodle doll in a white knuckled grip as he strode to the locker rooms, a grim look of determination on his face.

At seventeen, life was going pretty well for Christophe Giacometti. He was currently placing third in the Grand Prix Finals with a steady score of ninety-nine.

  
But Viktor on the other hand... he was losing quite badly. Christophe never thought that was possible, but there was something else that was... off about Viktor today.

  
“I need to take a call, Christophe.” His coach told him, disappearing down the hall to the stairs of the hotel they were staying in.

  
“See you later then!” Christophe called, continuing to walk to his room, twirling the key in his hand.

  
Which one was his room again? He checked the key. Ah, three-hundred and twenty six.

  
Wait.

  
Which way was his room even?

  
A sob interrupted his thoughts.

  
Christophe visibly jumped. Was this hotel haunted?!

  
The sobbing continued, varying between a soft cry and a loud wail.

  
His eyes scanned the halls, locking on a door which still had the keys in the lock.

  
“It must be coming from there...” he pondered, stepping cautiously towards the door.

  
The sobbing from within resonated louder and murmuring could be heard amongst it.  
Christophe gripped the doorknob, silently praying not to walk in on someone having sex.

  
The room, he found was completely void of people. There was a bed, neatly made with an opened suitcase lying on it, contents strewn about on the floor and a chair had been knocked over. A soft light emanated from the bathroom.

  
Carefully, Christophe tiptoed into the room, closing the door quietly behind him, silently moving towards the bathroom, the sobbing growing louder.

  
His eyes widened in shock at what he saw.   
Viktor Nikiforov, his friend and rival, the ice king of Russia, was slumped on the floor against the shower, a half empty bottle of vodka next to him and sobbing violently as he clutched a pair of scissors in one hand and a train of silver in the other.

  
“Viktor!” Christophe gasped, dropping onto his knees in front of his friend. “Mien Gott, Viktor, what did you do?!”

  
Bloodshot cyan eyes locked with Christophe’s soft olive through messily cut silver bangs.

  
“I... cut it...” he said shakily. “I-I cut off my hair.” He answered, words slurred due to the vodka he’d been drinking.

  
“Why?! You hair was a Russian national treasure!” Christophe shrieked.

  
“Silly Christophe, it’s not all gone.” The nineteen year old Russian laughed, his head tipping back against the Plexiglas shower door.

  
“But why?!”

  
“To surprise audience, byat.”

  
“Wha-what?!”

  
“Audience is bored with me, with my look. I switch things up, with scissors!” He grins, showing the scissors to his friend.

  
“How drunk even are you?” Christophe asked, causing Viktor to look offended.

  
“I... not drunk. I Russian. RUSSIANS DON’T GET DRUNK LIKE SWISS BABIES.” He yelled, breaking into a loud bout of laughter.

Christophe gazed warily at the bottle.

  
“Is that bottle the only bottle you drank from?” He asked, pointing at it.

  
“I had some wine, and a little beer. And that vodka. Which is mine no touch.” Viktor shrugged. “But my hair! It short now!”

  
Christophe groaned inwardly. Great. Due to the performance, Viktor’s emotional state was at its worst, and the large amount of alcohol had consumed was far from aiding his sense of judgement, having cut off his hair. And knowing Viktor, he was going to be in a state about the loss of his hair, to say the least.

  
“Viktor, give me the scissors.” Christophe sighed, holding out his hand expectantly.

  
“Wha? You have little hair. Why you need scissors?”

  
“Give me the scissors.”

  
“Why?”

  
“One: you could hurt yourself-”

  
“I am not... baby. I am older than you. Two years!”

  
“Just give me the scissors, Viktor.”

  
“NIET!” Viktor shrieked, clutching the scissors tightly.

  
Christophe glared at him, snatching the scissors from the drunk boy and gripping his wrist.

  
“Stand up.” He commanded, pulling the wasted Russian onto his feet. “And stay still!”  
Viktor huffed, reluctantly obeying his friend and rival as he glared at Christophe, or rather his reflection it the mirror.

"Muzak." Viktor sneered.

  
“Your hair is cut messily.” He explained, selecting a slightly longer lock and trimming it. “I’m just evening it out so it doesn’t it bad tomorrow.”

  
Viktor’s glare softened.

  
“Chris...”

  
“Nearly done.”

  
“Do you hate me?” He asked quietly, seemingly sobering up a little.

  
“No.” He answered, placing the scissors under the sink of the bathroom. “You just, do stupid things sometimes.”

  
“Okay...”

  
“Chris?”

  
“Yeah?”

  
“... Tired.”

  
“Then let’s get you to bed.” Christophe said, shining his friends arm over his shoulder. “And let go of your hair, it’s gross.”

  
“No!”

  
It was at this point that Christophe had finally had enough of arguing with drunk Viktor, and opted to drag him to his bed and help him drink from the water bottle on the nightstand instead of argue with him for another fifteen minutes or so.

Viktor opened his eyes slowly, the sun streaming through his curtains causing him to flinch at the brightness, bringing a hand to his forehead as he felt a dull pounding within his skull.

  
“Cyka Byat...” he cursed, reaching for the hair tie on the nightstand before beginning to gather his hair to tie it back... only to find that there wasn’t any.

  
He wasn’t bald, thank god, but somehow his hair had miraculously been cropped to chin length.

  
“My hair? What happened to my hair?!” He gasped, panicking slightly.

  
He lifted the sheets to climb out of bed, only to be met with another horror.

  
A tangled, butchered mess of silver fibres lay bunched at his knees.

  
“Chto fakticheskaya yebat?!” He screamed at the pure horror of the site before you.

  
“Yeah, I warned you that you’d freak out in the morning.” Came a voice, which belonged to his friend and rival, Christophe Giacometti. “You didn’t listen of course.” He shrugged as he sat down on the foot of Viktor’s bed.

  
“Wha- what... is that?”

  
“Your hair. Yes. You got ridiculously drunk last night and cut it off.”

  
“What?!”

  
“You did it in a desperate attempt to surprise the audience.”

  
“And you let me do this?!”

  
“Oh no, you’d already done it by the time I got here. When I got here you were on the bathroom floor clutching that,” He said, pointing to the mess of silver. “And pair of scissors and you were crying with a half empty bottle of vodka next to you.”

  
“... You cannot be serious.”

  
“I’m afraid I am.”

  
“... Yakov is going to murder me.”

  
“Have fun with that then.” Christophe grinned, standing up from the bed. “I need to go. I suggest you have a breakfast with a lot of carbohydrates and take a nice long shower.”

  
“Yuuri! Yuuri! C’mon! You’re gonna miss Viktor!” Yuuko whined, begging Yuuri to come downstairs.

  
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Yuuri wailed, sprinting down from his room, Vicchan bounding happily behind him.

  
Yuuri skidded to a halt, socks slipping against the polished wood floors of the family Inn, dropping down between Yuuko and Takeshi.

  
“ _And now, the act many have been waiting for, he didn’t do so well in the SP, the ice king of Russia, VIKTOR NIKIFOROV!” the announcer boomed._

  
“GO VIKTOR!” Yuuri and Yuuko cheered, faces dropping when the camera locked on his idol.

  
_“He will be skating to ‘Crystalise’ by up-and-coming American violinist Lindsay Stirling. This is sure to be a spellbinding performance and it seems Nikiforov has taken yesterday’s jab at his hair quite seriously, having cut it all off. A move that will surely devastate fans worldwide.”_

  
“I can’t believe it...” Yuuko gasped, tears forming in her large mahogany eyes.

  
“Whoa! He cut off his hair.” Takeshi noted, impressed at the bold move.

  
“Its gone... Viktor’s beautiful hair... all gone...” Yuuri whimpered, a cry bubbling in his throat.

 

  
“You know, my brother was devastated when you cut your hair.” Mari said, picking idly at the cuff of her woollen sweater, breaking the still silence held between the two in the vet waiting room.

  
“Many were.” Viktor said numbly, his thoughts elsewhere.

  
“He cried a lot.”

  
“Many did.”

  
“Well did many hold a memorial service and mourned the loss of your long hair until he left home at eighteen?”

  
“Wait, really?” Viktor asked, sitting forwards in his chair.

  
“Have you met Yuuri? He was crying the whole service. He still misses your long hair.”

  
Viktor took a strand between his fingers, playing with it gently.

  
“I do too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mein Gott: my god/oh my god
> 
> Byat/Cyka byat: bitch/fucking bitch
> 
> Chto fakticheskaya yebat: what the actial fuck
> 
> I am not ready for yoi to end
> 
> Tumblr: NerdQueensBlogBitches


End file.
